Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Deanna Durbin, who as a plucky child movie star with a sweet soprano voice charmed American audiences during the Depression and saved Universal Pictures from bankruptcy before she vanished from public view 64 years ago, has died, a fan club announced on Tuesday. She was 91.

In a newsletter, the Deanna Durbin Society said Ms. Durbin died “a few days ago,” quoting her son, Peter H. David, who thanked her admirers for respecting her privacy. No other details were given.

Ms. Durbin had remained determinedly out of public view since 1949, when she retired to a village in France with her third husband.

From 1936 to 1942, Ms. Durbin was everyone’s intrepid kid sister or spunky daughter, a wholesome, radiant, can-do girl who in a series of wildly popular films was always fixing the problems of unhappy adults.

And as an instant Hollywood star with her very first movie, “Three Smart Girls,” she almost single-handedly fixed the problems of her fretting bosses at Universal, bringing them box-office gold.

In 1946, Ms. Durbin’s salary of $323,477 from Universal made her the second-highest-paid woman in America, just $5,000 behind Bette Davis.

Her own problems began when she outgrew the role that had brought her fame. Critics responded negatively to her attempts to be an adult on screen, as a prostitute in love with a killer in Robert Siodmak’s bleak film noir “Christmas Holiday” (1944) and as a debutante mixed up in a murder plot in “Lady on a Train” (1945.)

The child-star persona affected her personal life as well.

“When my first marriage failed, everyone said that I could never divorce. It would ruin the ‘image,’ ” she told Robert Shipman in Films and Filming magazine in 1983. “How could anybody really think that I was going to spend the rest of my life with a man I found I didn’t love, just for the sake of an ‘image’?”

The man was Vaughn Paul, an assistant director, whom she had married at 19 in 1941. The marriage lasted two years. Her second marriage, to Felix Jackson, the 43-year-old producer of several of her films, also ended in divorce, after the birth of a daughter.

The third marriage was a success: in 1950, at 28, she married Charles David, the 44-year-old French director of “Lady on a Train.” After starring in 21 feature films, she retired to a French farmhouse.

Edna Mae Durbin was born on Dec. 4, 1921, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and grew up in Southern California, where she studied singing. She was discovered by an MGM casting director searching Los Angeles singing schools for someone to portray the opera star Ernestine Schumann-Heink as a child.

Signed by the studio at 13, Ms. Durbin, who already possessed a mature coloratura soprano, soon appeared in a one-reel short, “Every Sunday,” with another recently signed 13-year-old, Judy Garland, who sang swing while Ms. Durbin sang classical music.

Her MGM career ended suddenly, however, when Schumann-Heink, who was to play herself as an adult in the movie about her life, died at 75 and the studio did not pick up Ms. Durbin’s option. Shortly afterward she moved to Universal, shepherded there by Rufus Le Maire, a former MGM executive who had switched his allegiance to the rival studio.

Ms. Durbin was quickly handed to Joe Pasternak, who produced her first 10 movies, and to Henry Koster, who directed six of them: “Three Smart Girls,” “One Hundred Men and a Girl,” “Three Smart Girls Grow Up,” “First Love,” “Spring Parade” and “It Started With Eve.”

In his autobiography, “Easy the Hard Way,” Mr. Pasternak — who would eventually move to MGM and build the careers of two other coloratura sopranos, Kathryn Grayson and Jane Powell — said that stardom was always “a matter of chemistry between the public and the player” and that no one could take credit for discovering Deanna Durbin.

“You can’t hide that kind of light under a bushel,” he wrote. “You just can’t, even if you try.”

Ms. Durbin, who was originally to have ninth billing in “Three Smart Girls,” became the movie’s star when studio executives saw the first rushes. About the same time, in 1936, she began singing on Eddie Cantor’s popular weekly radio program.

In 1938 there was a nationwide search to choose the young man who would give Ms. Durbin her first screen kiss in the movie “First Love.” (Robert Stack was the actor chosen.) She was given a special miniature 1938 Academy Award for her “significant contribution in bringing to the screen the spirit and personification of youth.”

In movie after movie Ms. Durbin’s character found a way to help the struggling grown-ups in her life: reuniting her divorced parents, persuading the conductor Leopold Stokowski to help her out-of-work musician father, cajoling a stranger into becoming her father for a day.

Many of the films were Depression fairy tales in which Ms. Durbin won over or defeated silly rich people with the help of butlers, cooks and chauffeurs, who often risked their jobs to aid her.

After moving to France in 1949 and settling outside Paris in the village of Neauphle-le-Château, Ms. Durbin devoted most of her time to keeping her home, cooking and raising her children. In addition to Peter, her son from her marriage to Mr. David, Ms. Durbin had a daughter, Jessica, from her second marriage. Mr. David died in 1999, a few months before their 50th wedding anniversary.

Mr. David once said that he and Ms. Durbin had made a deal that he would protect her “from spiders, mosquitoes and reporters.”

Ms. Durbin, who gave almost no interviews after she left Hollywood, did send reporters a letter in 1958 that read in part: “I was a typical 13-year-old American girl. The character I was forced into had little or nothing in common with myself — or with other youth of my generation, for that matter. I could never believe that my contemporaries were my fans. They may have been impressed with my ‘success.’ but my fans were the parents, many of whom could not cope with their own youngsters. They sort of adopted me as their ‘perfect’ daughter.”

In the letter, which was excerpted in some newspapers, she also wrote: “I was never happy making pictures. I’ve gained weight. I do my own shopping, bring up my two children and sing an hour every day.”

Monday, April 29, 2013

The 1950s saw the downfall of the Hollywood movie musical. With the coming of rock 'n' roll and the end of the studio system, musicals were falling out of favor. However, the decade saw some of the most beloved musicals made like "Singin In The Rain" and "The Band Wagon". Both were released by MGM, and not to be forgotten is the movie bio of torch singer Ruth Etting called "Love Me Or Leave Me". The movie was the first film undertaken by Doris Day in 1955 after her 'liberation' from Warner Brothers. She was now free to make her own choice of films and she was very intrigued with the idea of playing the role of Ruth Etting. Not only that but she had an outstanding producer, director and a very literate script. However, it was the idea of playing opposite Jimmy Cagney that finally convinced her to tackle the role. The film also had a great musical score that also attracted her. One of her biggest pleasures was working with the great musical department at MGM.

On the recommendation of former Warner star, James Cagney, Doris Day was offered the coveted lead in the Ruth Etting story. Miss Etting had been a top singing star of the 1930s whose career had spanned the speakeasies of Chicago, nightclubs, recordings, radio, the Ziegfeld Follies and Hollywood films. Superstar, Ava Gardner, desperately wanted to play Etting, but MGM, influenced by the already-cast Cagney, who felt that Doris Day had the depth and talent as an actress and singer to bring life to this highly dramatic role, offered the part to her. She was such a huge star in 1955, that she would become the first actress to receive billing over James Cagney in 30 years. Ruth Etting, who died in 1978 at the age of 80, reportedly disapproved of Day playing her. Etting had wanted Jane Powell to play her, but the studio insisted on an actress with more acting ability. Not to say that Jane Powell was a bad actress, but she did not have the range that Doris Day had.

In her book, Doris Day, Her Own Story, she said: “I prepared for the role by listening to all the Ruth Etting records. She had a quiet way of speaking and singing. It was not my intention to mimic her, but to suggest her style with little inflections and shadings that I picked up from the recordings.” She obtained 112 sides of songs that Miss Etting originally waxed when she was the toast of Broadway, and it was from that group of songs that the songs for the film were ultimately selected.

Ruth Etting, Martin "the Gimp" Snyder and Johnny Alderman were all living and were consulted during the preparation for the film. This is highly unusual, for most biographies are produced after the principals are deceased. Their firsthand remembrances enhanced the realistic depiction presented in the movie. It was amazing what the movie depicted, being produced in 1955. It shows the physical and mental abuse that Ruth Etting had during her marriage to Martin Snyder. It even eludes to an incident where Snyder raped Etting. Doris Day later said that more graphic sceness were filmed that never made it into the movie.

Doris Day wrote in her autobiography that she hesitated before accepting the lead in this film. Ruth Etting was a kept woman who clawed her way up from seamy Chicago nightclubs to the Ziegfeld Follies. It would require her to drink, wear scant, sexy costumes and to string along a man she didn't love in order to further her career. There was also a certain vulgarity about Ruth Etting that she didn't want to play. Producer Joe Pasternak convinced Day to accept the role because she would give the part some dignity that would play away from the vulgarity. After this film was released, Doris Day was deluged with mail from fans attacking her, a Christian Scientist, for playing a lewd woman who smoked, drank, and wore scant costumes in the nightclub scenes. Day cared about everyone who was disturbed by her characterization, and she answered every piece of mail, explaining the necessity for realism, and that it was essential to separate actress Doris Day from character Ruth Etting. She felt that as a performer, she had the same responsibility to the public that a politician has to the electorate.

The movie was different than any movie that Doris Day had been in, and I feel that although this movie was a musical, it displayed Day's acting ability more than any movie she had ever been in. James Cagney was nominated for his role, but unfortunately lost. Doris Day was sadly not even nominated. The story of Ruth Etting was the role of a lifetime at the time, and I feel that Day portrayed it as accurately as 1955 Hollywood would allow. Reading the true account of Ruth Etting's life, "Love Me Or Leave Me" only touched upon the real Ruth Etting. Etting died long after the jazz era was over on September 24, 1978. As for Martin Snyder, he lived out the rest of his life is vitual obscurity, and he outlived Etting. He died on November 9, 1981. Doris Day as Ruth Etting was one of those memorable roles in a splashy Hollywood musical that they really do not make anymore...

Friday, April 26, 2013

Now that winter is finally over - and spring and summer (soon) is upon us, I thought it would be interesting to see what the classic stars did at the beach. Not only is it interesting to see how they relaxed, but it is great to see the different styles of beach wear. Classic Hollywood really knew how to soak up the sun...

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

I am not a huge fan of westerns, so I figured I would broaden my horizon by featuring another guest review from our resident movie guru Bruce Kogan:

Plainsman And The Lady is a fanciful telling of the founding of the Pony Express hardly anything close to the truth, but a nice tale nonetheless. Wild Bill Elliott stars as a saloonkeeper who throws in with Russell, Majors, and Waddell the western freighting outfit who organized it. The real life characters of Charles Russell and Senator William B. Gwin of California are played by William Davidson and Russell Hicks respectively.

The banker footing a large part of the bill for the Pony Express is Charles Judels who is from Germany written that way to accommodate screen daughter Vera Hruba Ralston's accent. Judels has a second wife in Gail Patrick a real schemer who married Judels for a life of comfort. She's two timing the sick Judels with chief villain Joseph Schildkraut.

Two of the best movie bad people around Schildkraut as always when he does villains is a slick piece of work. He owns a stagecoach line and he stands to lose mail contracts to the faster moving Pony Express so he employs a variety of maneuvers, some involving the unhappily married Patrick to stop the line. As for Patrick she's working her own agenda and determined to be the top dog however things come out.

The first 3/4 of the film is set in St. Joseph, Missouri, but the last quarter is on the frontier itself with enough action and gun play to satisfy any western fan. This Republic western with its adult themes was definitely not marketed for the Saturday matinée kids.

Also in the cast are Raymond Walburn as his usual garrulous character, a judge this time, Don Barry as a murderous punk in Schildkraut's employ and Andy Clyde as Elliott's sidekick. All players that I enjoy seeing in any film.

Bill Elliott was given some good westerns to do by Republic's Herbert J. Yates with larger budgets than his normal Saturday matinée cowboys got. I got the feeling that Elliott liked these films better than the Red Ryder stuff he was doing before and was hoping to make the same quantum leap in career that John Wayne did. Sad to say for him that never came. But Plainsman And The Lady is still a fine western if not exactly truthful about the founding of the Pony Express...

Monday, April 22, 2013

Most film lovers are well aware of the career of Joan Crawford when she was Hollywood's darling. Many people still know about Crawford's final years as well as the years after her death which was tarnished by the "Mommie Dearest" book. However, I wanted to take a look at Joan Crawford's early years, before she became Joan Crawford. Back then she was only Lucille Fay LeSueur.

Crawford was born Lucille Fay LeSueur in San Antonio in 1905, the third child of Tennessee-born Thomas E. LeSueur (1868–1938), a laundry laborer of English, French Huguenot and Jersey ancestry, and Anna Bell Johnson (1884–1958), who was of Swedish and Irish descent. Her older siblings were Daisy LeSueur, who died very young, and Hal LeSueur. Thomas LeSueur abandoned the family a few months before Crawford's birth. He reappeared in Abilene, Texas in 1930 as a 62-year-old construction laborer on the George R. Davis House, built in Prairie School architecture.

Crawford's mother subsequently married Henry J. Cassin. The family lived in Lawton, Oklahoma, where Cassin ran a movie theater. Crawford was unaware that Cassin was not her birth father until her brother Hal told her. The 1910 federal census for Comanche County, Oklahoma, enumerated on April 20, showed Henry and Anna living at 910 "D" Street in Lawton. Crawford was listed as five years old, thus showing 1905 as her likely year of birth. However, the state of Texas did not require the filing of birth certificates until 1908, allowing Crawford to claim she was born in 1908.

Crawford preferred the nickname "Billie" as a child and she loved watching vaudeville acts perform on the stage of her stepfather's theater. The instability of her family life affected her education and her level of schooling never really progressed beyond the fourth grade. Her ambition was to be a dancer. However, in an attempt to escape piano lessons to run and play with friends, she leaped from the front porch of her home and cut her foot deeply on a broken milk bottle. Crawford had three operations and was unable to attend elementary school for a year and a half. She eventually fully recovered and returned to dancing.

Around 1916, Crawford's family moved to Kansas City, Missouri. Cassin was first listed in the City Directory in 1917, living at 403 East Ninth Street. While still in elementary school, Crawford was placed in St. Agnes Academy, a Catholic school in Kansas City. Later, after her mother and stepfather broke up, she stayed on at St. Agnes as a work student. She then went to Rockingham Academy, also as a work student. She later claimed the headmaster's wife there beat her and forged her grades to hide the fact that young Lucille spent far more time working, primarily cooking and cleaning, rather than being able to study academically. While attending Rockingham she began dating and had her first serious relationship, with a trumpet player named Ray Sterling. It was Sterling who reportedly inspired her to begin challenging herself academically. In 1922, she registered at Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri, giving her year of birth as 1906. Crawford attended Stephens for only four months before withdrawing after she realized she was not prepared for college.

Under the name Lucille LeSueur, Crawford began dancing in the choruses of traveling revues and was spotted dancing in Detroit by producer Jacob J. Shubert. Shubert put her in the chorus line for his 1924 show, Innocent Eyes, at the Winter Garden Theatre on Broadway in New York City. While appearing in Innocent Eyes Crawford met a saxophone player named James Welton. The two were allegedly married in 1924 and lived together for several months, although this supposed marriage was never mentioned in later life by Crawford.

She wanted additional work and approached Loews Theaters publicist Nils Granlund. Granlund secured a position for her with producer Harry Richmond's act and arranged for her to do a screen test which he sent to producer Harry Rapf in Hollywood. Stories have persisted that Crawford further supplemented her income by appearing in one or more stag, or soft-core pornographic, films, although this has been disputed Rapf notified Granlund on December 24, 1924 that Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer had offered Crawford a contract at $75 a week. Granlund immediately wired the 19-year-old LeSueur – who had returned to her mother's home in Kansas City – with the news; she borrowed $400 for travel expenses. The night after Christmas she left Kansas City and arrived in Culver City, California on January 1, 1925. That journey to California would be the beginnings of not only a movie career, but it would be the beginnings of a true legend - the legend that was Joan Crawford...

Friday, April 19, 2013

Born in 1929, Grace Kelly came into the world knowing she was beautiful. That beauty made one of three career choices natural for her - a model, an actress, or a princess. Kelly basically did all three. George Kelly, Grace’s uncle and a very successful playwright, helped her gain admission to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, a prestigious acting school in New York. Before her acting career, she modeled successfully. Grace just so happened to be at a friend’s fashion shoot and the photographer noticed her and quickly arranged for her to be on the front cover of Redbook magazine as the cover model. Grace made her Broadway debut in “The Father” by Strinndberg.

In her first appearance on the silver screen she played a minor part in a box-office failure called “Fourteen Hours”. Her first starring role was in “High Noon”. In her acting career she came across very shy and rumors say she had intimate romances with many of her co-workers. Some of these men included Clark Gable, Bing Crosby, Ray Milland, William Holden, Oleg Cassini, and Jean-Pierre Aumont, just to name a few. It doesn’t sound as though Grace had a problem with being shy with all of her boyfriends. In one specific incident an observer remembered attending a lunch given by Aristotle Onassis. Grace accompanied Cary Grant. The Observer wrote: ”Grace said little during lunch, and when it was over, Onassis took Cary aside and invited him back anytime. ‘And please,’ the billionaire said, nodding towards Grace,’ bring your secretary along with you." Grace was so quiet that Aristotle believed her to be Cary’s secretary instead of
his co-worker.

Around 1954, she met her future husband at the Cannes Film Festival. A journalist arranged for her to meet His Serene Highness Prince Rainier Grimaldi of Monaco, one of his 142 titles, and she canceled the meeting because of an appointment with a hairdresser. Rainier did, however, keep in touch with Grace and in December of 1955 he traveled to the United States to join the Kellys’ for their annual Christmas party. Only three days later Grace and Prince Rainier announced their marriage plans. They were married on April 19, 1956. Grace was 26 years old and fit the princess role perfectly. Even if she hadn’t been born to royal blood, she was beautiful, famous, and a devout Roman Catholic from a wealthy background.

There were about 1,500 journalists who decided to cover the marriage and just as Princess Diana was mobbed by the paparazzi, so were Grace and Rainier. The royal family was in the news often with pictures published when each of their two daughters and son were born, of family vacations, and holidays. Princess Grace and Princess Diana had similar life stories in that they wereboth humanitarians, worked hard for charitable causes, gave up careers to marry into royalty and have families, and their lives both ended tragically in car accidents. The differences between the two were that Princess Grace was driving and not the chauffeur, and the paparazzi weren’t involved. It is said that Princess Grace and her youngest daughter Stephanie were arguing over Stephanie’s plans to join her boyfriend, Paul Belmondo (son of the famous actor Jean-Paul Belmondo), and Princess Grace excused their driver to continue their conversation in private. According to a reliable source, Princess Grace was seen at the wheel of their Rover, however other rumors say that Princess Stephanie was at the wheel illegally. There was a truck driver behind the vehicle who recalls, ” It was honking in warning as it swerved dangerously around the highways sharp curves.” Also, according to the truck driver, “ as the Rover approached the fatal turn, instead of slowing down it appeared to accelerate suddenly and sail straight over the edge of the cliff. After shearing off the tops of several trees it rolled over and came to a stop upside down in a ravine.”

Nobody knows what really happened on that fatal day. Princess Stephanie refuses to talk about that specific day even though it would clear up the rumors and stories. Princess Stephanie suffered minor injuries compared to her mother who suffered head trauma. A CAT scan after the accident it showed that Princess Grace’s brain had been damaged in two different places. One was from the trauma of the crash and the other appeared to have been a stroke, although it was impossible to tell if the stroke caused the accident or if the accident caused the stroke. Princess Grace was put on life support and her family had to make the difficult decision of deciding whether or not to end the artificial life support. The family decided that they were going to “pull the plug” -as it is said. Princess Grace died on September 14, 1982, after languishing in a coma for over 24 hours. The saddest part about the accident has to be that her death might have been prevented if she had been wearing her seat belt.

Whether it was driver error or a stroke, the public will never truly know. Grace Kelly only made eleven movies, but in each film she captivated audiences. Whether dancing with reporter Frank Sinatra or the sexy love interest of cat burglar Cary Grant, Kelly became every role she played. Kelly did the same thing when she became the princess of Monaco. Even though her life was tragically short, while she was alive she seemingly lived the story book life. Grace Kelly moved to Hollywood, married her prince, and almost lived happily ever after. Two out of three was not too bad...

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

One of the memorable movies I remember seeing as a child was 1982's Annie. I am not afraid to say that I love this movie to this day. The movie was not the best musical Hollywood ever produced, but its a fun movie to watch. The film was directed by John Huston, written by Carol Sobieski, choreographed by Arlene Phillips with musical sequences created by Joe Layton, and features an ensemble cast consisting of Albert Finney, Carol Burnett, Ann Reinking, Tim Curry, Bernadette Peters, Geoffrey Holder, Edward Herrmann, and Aileen Quinn in her feature film debut.

The producer of the film, Ray Stark, wanted both John Huston and Joe Layton while working as the director and choreographer respectively, to also be executive producer on the film, because it was too large an enterprise for one person. Regarding Huston being given the job of directing the first (and what would be the only) musical in his 40-year directing career, screenwriter Carol Sobieski said: "Hiring John [Huston] is an outsider risk, and Ray's [Stark] a major gambler. He loves this kind of high risk situation."[

For reasons yet explained, it was planned that the staging for the intimate, secretive song "Easy Street" would be the biggest number in the film. A special outdoor street set, costing $1 million, was built, and it took over one week to shoot the scene. However, the final number was thought to be "overstuffed" and "sour." Nearly two months after the film had finished shooting, an indoor, more intimate number was shot that mimicked the ambience portrayed in the original 1977 musical.

The production filmed for six weeks at Monmouth University in New Jersey, which has two mansions that were used in the film, one of which is the Shadow Lawn Mansion (now known as Woodrow Wilson Hall). An abandoned railroad bridge over the Passaic River in Newark was used for location shooting of one of the climatic scenes.

There are major differences between the original Broadway show and the movie version. The film featured four new songs, "Dumb Dog", "Let's Go to the Movies", "Sign", and "We Got Annie", and cut "We'd like to Thank You, Herbert Hoover", "N.Y.C", "You Won't Be an Orphan for Long", "Something Was Missing", "Annie", and "New Deal for Christmas". In addition, the song "Maybe" has two reprises while "Little Girls" and "Easy Street" do not.

In the stage musical, Miss Hannigan, Rooster, and Lily are caught at the Warbucks mansion, thus their plan to kidnap Annie fails as they are arrested by the President's Secret Service. In the movie, Annie is kidnapped, leading to Warbucks organizing a citywide search and while escaping, Rooster chases her up the B&O Bridge. Miss Hannigan's heart softens and she also attempts to rescue her from being killed by him, but he knocks her out and continues the chase. Eventually, Punjab rescues her by autocopter and returns her safely at the end. Miss Hannigan is then shown joining in the celebration at the end of the movie and showing a possible romantic interest in Punjab.

In its initial release, the film made $58 million dollars, but it cost $50 million to make. The casting of British actor Albert Finney as Daddy Warbucks was interesting, because he did not have much of a singing voice. He made one movie musical earlier - Scrooge (1970) in London. I am also surprised that Bernadette Peters did not have a bigger role in the movie. By 1982, she had made some great movies like The Jerk (1979) with Steve Martin, but her role was minor in this film. Carol Burnett made the movie for me. No matter who I see play Miss Hannigan, Burnett made that role hers. She is the best part of the movie. Reportedly, Burnett would know when it was one of the child actor's birthday party and throw them a little party on the set. Also, when Annie celebrated its 30th anniversary in 2012, Burnett sent star Aileen Quinn a gold locket that read "Always my Annie". Just know those stories makes watching the movie a heartwarming experience, and it makes you definitely realize that the sun will always come out tomorrow...

Monday, April 15, 2013

Here is a great story that Danny Kaye's only child, Dena, wrote about her father...

Her Heart Belongs to Daddy: A Daughter Reminisces
By Dena Kaye

Imagine Robin Williams, Tommy Tune and Tony Bennett all on the same stage, at the same time, and you'll have an idea of what it was like to see Danny Kaye perform solo. Kaye, who died in 1987, had his heyday in the forties and fifties - on the stage (he got his big break in 'Lady in the Dark' in 1940) and in the movies ('The Secret Life of Walter Mitty', 'The Inspector General', 'The Court Jester', 'White Christmas', to name a few).

Danny Kaye could do anything: dance like a dream, sing liltingly and wittily (his specialties were the musical tongue twisters written by his wife and chief collaborator, Sylvia Fine) and act in both dramas and comedies. He was a man of protean talents, awesome energy and myriad interests, from conducting music to cooking.

For more that thirty years, while he traveled as UNICEF's first goodwill ambassador (he once visited 65 cities in five days), he was considered a father figure to the world's children. But in truth he had only one child: his daughter, Dena. She has rarely written about her famous father - and never so intimately as she has for this issue.

I was six years old the first time I saw my father perform live in a theater. I can still see myself sitting in the third row of the orchestra. From the stage, my father called out to me, "Are you having a good time, sweetheart?" I emitted a faint and hesitant "yes." A little while he asked me again, and then again. Each time my "yes" got more and more tremulous. After the show, I ran into his dressing room, threw myself into his arms and said, between sobs and gulps, "I don't want anybody laughing at my daddy."

How could I have known at such a tender age that laughter was the gift he gave to the world? It wasn't until years later that I would find myself doubled over, my ribs aching with glee, my spirit light as air. I loved what Walter Winchell once wrote about my father in a movie review; "Ushers might be knocked to the ground by people rolling in the aisles." Making people laugh, though, was only part of his repertoire. In his own profession, a word he used with great pride, he was an actor who danced (just think, he performed Fred Astaire's role in 'White Christmas'), a dancer who sang and a mimic who brought tears to your eyes. He had style and grace. He was elegant even when he was zany. His gymnastic face expressed every emotion. The great pianist, Artur Rubenstein noted, "As with Chaplin, I am not so much amused as I am moved."

Unlike anyone else I can think of, my father had a breathtaking assortment of talents. His roles ranged from a concentration-camp survivor in 'Skokie' to the title character in 'Hans Christian Anderson'. He enunciated to perfection the furiously fast and complex lyrics written by my mother, Sylvia Fine, and invented a gibberish of onomatopoeia - interspersed with the odd real word - whose meaning was somehow absolutely clear. "Danny accepted no boundaries," Harry Belafonte, a fellow UNICEF ambassador, once said. "That's the highest form of creative energy." His gifts were showcased in equally diverse venues: on Broadway, in nightclubs, in movies, on television and in his one-man show in theaters. He was a charter member of the pantheon of consummate communicators who made a beeline for your soul. While you were in Danny Kaye's presence, he held you in the palm of his hand. And to me, his hands were his signature, a ballet unto themselves, an eloquent accessory to whatever he did. Mikhail Baryshnikov called them "regal and magnetic".

"I had to become an entertainer," my father once said, "because, maybe, that was the fundamental way I could express myself." Fundamental, yes, but I marvel at the other outlets for his creativity. Baseball-team owner (part-owner of the Seattle Mariners), conductor (more than fifty orchestras worldwide, including the New York Philharmonic and Amsterdam's Concertgebouw), commercial-rated jet pilot and chef extraordinaire, he was Walter Mitty. I never heard him say, "I wish I had done…" A high-school dropout propelled by his own curiosity and restlessness, he was hands-on and knee deep in anything he did. It's one of his qualities I admired most. This intensity, combined with his commitment to excellence, made him an expert in whatever he set out to do. To learn how to cook Chinese food, he chopped and chowed with a master chef in San Franscisco, read Chinese cookbooks as though they were novels and built a Chinese kitchen in the alley behind our house. I'll never forget the time when three of France's most famous chefs came for a Chinese meal. "Why should I be nervous?" my father asked, anticipating the obvious question. "What do they know about Chinese food?"

"You could ask anything of him," said one screenwriter. "The more difficult, the more fun he had." He took fencing lessons for one scene in the movie 'The Court Jester' and became so proficient that the instructor had to stand in for the other actor. A lifelong baseball (translation: Dodger) fan, he was already fluent in all aspects of the game, from the dugout to the corporate office, when he himself became a team co-owner in the late seventies. He participated fully. "I'm crazy about what I do," he'd say. "When I'm conducting, I think that's my favourite; when I fly an airplane, that's what I like best; and when I travel for UNICEF, that satisfies me the most." My father never did anything for show: he did whatever he did because he was profoundly interested in it.

That same truth motivated his giving nature - on the world scene and in his friendships. He was there for his friends. And for me. As I grew up, left the nest and became a journalist and world traveler, he always listened carefully, offered his opinion (he gave me advice on everything from interviewing techniques to affairs of the heart) and then let me find my own way. He never insinuated his own agenda into my life. Had I announced out of the blue that I was moving to the outback to raise sheep, he would have said, "Great, when can I come visit" He entertained troops and conducted major symphony orchestras the world over to raise millions for the Musician's Pension Fund, never taking, or expecting, a fee. He couldn't read a note of music and learnt his entire program by ear. He sang the music cues for the orchestra. Violinist Itzhak Perlman once said, "He gets a better sound out of the orchestra than most conductors." My father's best-known role outside his profession was UNICEF's ambassador to the world's children, a position he held from 1954 until the end of his life and which popularized the idea of using celebrities to drawn attention to worthwhile charities. In fact, he was asked to accept the Nobel Peace Prize on behalf of UNICEF in 1965, and he received his two Oscars for his humanitarian work. Among his greatest gifts, I think, was his ability to enter completely into whatever world he was in. He related to children with a child's lack of inhibition. From Japan to India to Africa, there was no language barrier. He rolled on the floor, he rubbed noses, he danced, he sang kid's songs, he made funny noises. "Children," he said, "recognize instinctively what is true and what is not."

It pleased my father to share his interests and rediscover things he liked through someone else's eyes. Under his expansive wing, I learned about everything from the merits of delicatessen mustard to the wonders of the Old City of Jerusalem. He traveled in his comfortable (not necessarily stylish) uniform of jeans, Izon shirt, leather jacket, brimmed hat and custom-made shoes (he eschewed conventional ones because he rightly observed they had little to do with the real shape of the foot). He took me into a world where in the course of a morning we would go from a high-level briefing to a one-table restaurant on a dirt road. He was at ease in wildly different circumstances. I admired - and learned from - that.

To my mind, one of his unusual virtues was that he had high standards, but he wasn't a snob. He was born in East New York, a Brooklyn neighbourhood whose residents were of mixed backgrounds, cultures and religions. "Everyone born here liked a person for who he was," he said, "not for where he came from or who his parents were." If my father found someone interesting, he or she was on his list. The world of networking for any reason, professional or otherwise, was unknown to him. He didn't travel with an entourage. He liked good caviar and Kentucky Fried Chicken equally. Boxed into a corner about something he thought was unnecessary, unreasonable or just against his principles, however, he sorted it out "a la Danny Kaye."

We used to joke about his taking his 'charm pills' before he went to cocktail parties and receptions. He hated social small talk for the same reason he hated five-minute interviews: he felt nothing could be discussed meaningfully. In one case, he walked into a reception, relieved the waitress of a large tray of hors d'oeuvres, made his way around the room serving astonished guests until the tray was empty, and left. Even at home he would make a moment unmistakably his. One day he came back from playing golf, and before he had the chance to put down his car keys, my mother said, "Darling, it's so nice out. Why don't you take a jump in the pool?" Without missing a beat, he just kept right on walking and did - golf clothes, beautiful suede jacket, car keys and all.

He often held to his credos rigidly. His dedication to - you might say obsession with - promptness was well known. "I'd rather be an hour early," he'd say, "than five minutes late." Typically, he'd spend all day shopping and preparing for dinner. Those renowned Chinese meals required two days. If you were late, you might never be invited again. He respected other people's time and felt that other's lateness showed a lack for his time. "People said he was difficult," says Suzanne Hertfelder, his longtime personal assistant. "What is difficult about expecting 100 per cent if you give 100 per cent?"

I miss him 100 per cent. I miss his Key lime pie, the aroma of his Tweed cologne and his joy at whatever he did. Honestly? I miss just about everything...

Friday, April 12, 2013

Jonathan Winters, who was known for his improv work that inspired many a contemporary stand-up comic including Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and others, has died. He was 87. Longtime family friend Joe Petro III says Winters died Thursday evening at his Montecito, Calif., home of natural causes, reports AP. A note on his website adds, "Rest in Peace, Mr. Winters."

Winters' career began when he won a talent contest in Dayton, Ohio, which led to radio gigs and appearances at comedy clubs, along with comedy albums.

He was a favorite guest on the late night TV circuit for decades, often appearing with Jack Paar, Johnny Carson and Steve Allen. And he often performed in character. One one of his best known was Maude Frickert, an old lady with a quick and acid wit. He had his own TV show in the 1950s.

Winters also appeared in nearly 50 movies, including a particularly notable role in the 1963 film It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

A devotee of Groucho Marx and Laurel and Hardy, Winters and his free-for-all brand of humor inspired Johnny Carson, Billy Crystal, Tracey Ullman and Lily Tomlin, among others. But Williams and Carrey are his best-known followers.

Winters, who battled alcoholism and depression for years, was introduced to millions of new fans in 1981 as the son of Williams' goofball alien and his earthling wife in the final season of ABC's "Mork and Mindy." The two often strayed from the script. Said Williams: "The best stuff was before the cameras were on, when he was open and free to create. ... Jonathan would just blow the doors off."

Winters' only Emmy was for best-supporting actor for playing Randy Quaid's father in the sitcom "Davis Rules" (1991). He was nominated again in 2003 as outstanding guest actor in a comedy series for an appearance on "Life With Bonnie."

He also won two Grammys: One for his work on "The Little Prince" album in 1975 another for his "Crank Calls" comedy album in 1996. He also won the Kennedy Center's second Mark Twain Prize for Humor in 1999, a year after Richard Pryor.

Winters was sought out in later years for his changeling voice and he contributed to numerous cartoons and animated films. Fittingly, he played three characters in the The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle movie in 2000.

"These voices are always screaming to get out," he told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram that year. "They follow me around pretty much all day and night."

Winters had made television history in 1956, when RCA broadcast the first public demonstration of color videotape on "The Jonathan Winters Show." Winters quickly realized the possibilities, author David Hajdu wrote in The New York Times in 2006. He soon used video technology "to appear as two characters, bantering back and forth, seemingly in the studio at the same time. You could say he invented the video stunt."

He continued to work up until the end, providing the voice of Papa Smurf in the movie Smurfs (2011) and its sequel due in theaters this summer.

Eileen Schauder Winters, his wife of more than 60 years, died on Jan. 11, 2009. She fought breast cancer for nearly 20 years. Jonathan is survived by two children and five grandchildren. Rest in peace funny man...

Here is a great story written about Van Johnson, right after his death in 2008...

Near the end of The Caine Mutiny (1954) there's a startling close-up of Van Johnson in which his pronounced facial scars from a 1943 car accident, so carefully hidden by studio makeup artists for so many years, are revealed more fully than they'd ever been on screen.

Johnson’s role isn’t major in The Caine Mutiny but the project was among the most prestigious he landed during the postwar era. It came a little more than a decade after the eternally boyish actor with the ginger-colored hair and ultrafair complexion—he used to crack that he got paid by the freckle—rose to screen fame during wartime. The bobby-soxers screamed over him. He could dance very well and sing well enough, as evidenced by this duet with Lucille Bremer from Till the Clouds Roll By (1946):

Nonetheless Johnson became known as “the voiceless Sinatra.” And thanks to films such as A Guy Named Joe and Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo he became huge.

But by the time of The Caine Mutiny when his star had fallen, getting out from underneath his usual scar-concealing makeup may well have been a relief.

Johnson died in 2008 at 92, and most of the obituaries ignored the part of his life spent largely behind another kind of facade. Some stories alluded to a “difficult” marriage. There’s enough on the record by now that we do a disservice to Johnson, and to the studio system that built his image, if we leave it at that.

Like Rock Hudson, Johnson—according to his ex-wife—was pressured by studio bosses into a marriage tailored to the image maintenance of a well-liked movie star. Hours after divorcing character actor Keenan Wynn, an old friend and fellow MGM contract player of Johnson’s, Evie Wynn married Johnson in 1947. They had one daughter. They separated around the time Johnson, according to The Independent newspaper of London, among other sources, had an affair with a male dancer in the London company of “The Music Man,” which starred Johnson as Professor Harold Hill. Johnson and Wynn Johnson divorced in 1968.

In 1999, five years before her death, Johnson’s ex-wife wrote of MGM: “They needed their ‘big star’ to be married to quell rumours about his sexual preferences.” She characterized MGM chief Louis B. Mayer as someone with “the ethics and morals of a cockroach,” and said Mayer put it to her plainly: “Unless I married Van Johnson, he wouldn’t renew Keenan’s contract. I was young and stupid enough to let Mayer manipulate me.”

After appearing on Broadway in the musicals “Too Many Girls” and, with Gene Kelly, “Pal Joey,” Johnson found stardom quickly and easily, though he did not find it easy. The MGM starmaking machinery was intense, and Johnson later acknowledged that he wasn’t ready for the publicity glare. In the biography “Van Johnson: MGM’s Golden Boy,” author Ronald L. Davis (who characterized Johnson’s orientation as “more homosexual than heterosexual”) notes Johnson, like other heartthrobs of the day, was “often pictured in the fan magazines with a rifle or an ax in his hand or engaged in some form of home repair.” Around that time Johnson told one interviewer: “I’m married to MGM. I have one love and it’s pictures.”

Johnson’s passing was one of those “was he still alive?” moments for many film fans. He was easy to take for granted. Yet when you examine this man’s utilitarian versatility, his slightly arch personification of the galoot-next-door, his career is worth a second look.

That near-fatal 1943 car accident kept him out of the war, and with so many other leading male stars off doing their bit for Uncle Sam, Johnson was pressed into onscreen service for hit after hit. Then his luck slowly waned. He made a mistake by turning down the lead in the TV series “The Untouchables,” which went instead to Robert Stack. Johnson kept busy, though, in films and TV, in nightclubs, and in scads and scads of dinner-theater productions. (I remember seeing a 1980s publicity photo taken for Casa Manana Theatre of Ft. Worth, with Johnson mugging up a storm as Moonface Martin in “Anything Goes.”)

Around the same time he turned up in a cameo in Woody Allen’s “Purple Rose of Cairo.” And on Broadway, also in the 1980s, Johnson at long last played a gay man comfortable in his sexuality, adept at song and dance, full of life, in “La Cage aux Folles,” by which time the voiceless Sinatra was no longer worried about what MGM or the bobby-soxers or anyone else thought about his image...

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Lon Chaney Sr was truly a man of a thousand faces like the title of his 1957 film biography states. Chaney elevated the horror genre in the 1920s to a whole new level, and I believe his films paved the way for future horror stars like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi to emerge. Some of Chaney's best movies were silent films like: "The Hunchback Of Notre Dame" (1923) and "The Phantom Of The Opera" (1925), and he resisted the sound era much like Charlie Chaplin did with his comedies.

Lon Chaney was among the last few big stars who held out from making the transition to sound films. He had witnessed the careers of long-standing silent film stars get wiped out almost overnight. While a few like Greta Garbo and Ronald Colman were able to make the change over to sound films (achieving greater stardom in the process), others, such as John Gilbert - once the idol of millions - were ruined once they opened their mouths. Chaney had dedicated too many years to his art to chance watching his own career fizzle. Although he initially frowned on this new innovation of sound in motion pictures, he was aware that he either had to make the change over to "talkies", or announce his retirement at the relatively young age of 46. When he finally made his decision in early 1930, Lon was quoted: "No, retirement is the bunk. And, yes…I am going into talkies! I'll tell you frankly that my first talking picture is going to make - or break me! Inside. I mean…in here…" as he tapped on his chest.

Chaney immersed himself in technical research around the sound rooms; studying the art of recording and learning about the recording devices of the era. He spent hours inside the mixing stages, not only to observe the mixers at work, but to occasionally mix and experiment himself. Chaney was making a study of sound recording techniques with the same intensity and discipline that he'd previously applied when studying the intricacies of physical and facial make-up.

Chaney's first sound film would be a remake of one of his greatest box-office successes, "The Unholy Three", which also re-teamed him with Tod Browning. There were delays in the production of the film though, as Chaney was apparently still ill from shooting his last film Thunder. He was far more ill than even he thought so at the time. Unable to fully recover from complications resulting from bronchitis and a throat infection, Chaney underwent a tonsillectomy. Still weak and considerably ill, he continued to shoot The Unholy Three, although there were reports of a few occasions where he could not summon up enough strength to leave his own dressing room. After completing the film, Chaney immediately went to New York to undergo medical tests. After consulting with several leading specialists, he returned to his mountain retreat situated in the High Sierras of Inyo National Forest.

The Unholy Three would be Lon Chaney's last film. Released in July of 1930, the film was an instant success. Old and new fans alike were anxious to hear Chaney talk for the first time. He proved his versatility once again by imitating the voice of an old lady, in addition to performing three other parts in the film. The film received glowing reviews, and exceeded everyone’s expectations of Lon Chaney, as it was now being pronounced that the "Man Of A Thousand Faces is also The Man Of A Thousand Voices!" The studios were already bus lining up new productions for him. Projects such as Cheri Bibi, The Sea Bat, The Bugle Sounds, and Dracula were being groomed for him. There were even rumors of Chaney being considered for Universal's Frankenstein.

His strength failing rapidly, Chaney was brought into a Hollywood hospital on August 1, 1930 for what was being diagnosed as "acute anemia". After a number of blood transfusions, Chaney seemed to be improving and was even removed from the critical list, having safely gotten through a 10-day struggle. By the morning of August 25th, he was reported in better condition; he had displayed an appetite and was even reported to be somewhat talkative. At midnight, he suffered from a lung hemorrhage that occurred so suddenly and unexpectedly - the physicians failed to reach him before he passed away at 12:55 A.M. He was only 47. On the day of his funeral, Thursday, August 28th, all work ceased throughout the Hollywood film industry for five minutes. At that time a genuis of the silent era was indeed silenced...

Monday, April 8, 2013

Annette Funicello, the dark-haired darling of TV's “The Mickey Mouse Club” in the 1950s who further cemented her status as a pop-culture icon in the '60s by teaming with Frankie Avalon in a popular series of “beach” movies, died Monday. She was 70. Funicello and her husband, Glen Holt, had moved from the Los Angeles area after a 2011 fire gutted their home in Encino.

Funicello, who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1987 and became a spokeswoman for treatment of the chronic, often-debilitating disease of the central nervous system, died at Mercy Southwest Hospital in Bakersfield, Walt Disney Co. spokesman Howard Green said.

Bob Iger, Disney’s chairman and chief executive, said: “Annette was and always will be a cherished member of the Disney family, synonymous with the word 'Mousketeer,' and a true Disney legend. She will forever hold a place in our hearts as one of Walt Disney’s brightest stars, delighting an entire generation of baby boomers with her jubilant personality and endless talent. Annette was well known for being as beautiful inside as she was on the outside, and she faced her physical challenges with dignity, bravery and grace. All of us at Disney join with family, friends, and fans around the world in celebrating her extraordinary life.”

Funicello was a 12-year-old dance-school student when Walt Disney saw her performing the lead role in “Swan Lake” at her dance-school's year-end recital at the Starlight Bowl in Burbank in the spring of 1955. She joined a group of other talented young performers hired to become Mousketeers on “The Mickey Mouse Club,” the children's variety show that debuted on ABC in October 1955 and quickly became a daily late-afternoon ritual for millions of young Americans.

Like her fellow female Mousketeers, Funicello wore a mouse-eared beanie, a blue pleated skirt, and a white, short-sleeved turtleneck sweater with her name emblazoned in block letters across her chest. But there was something special about the Mouseketeer with the curly black hair that unexpectedly turned her into the ensemble cast's biggest star.

Funicello made her acting debut on “The Mickey Mouse Club” serial “Adventure in Dairyland.” She also appeared in two of the popular “Spin and Marty” serials about a Western dude ranch for boys, with Tim Considine and David Stollery in the title roles. And in 1958, Disney showcased his prized Mousketeer in her own “Annette” serial.

After “The Mickey Mouse Club” ended production in 1958 and wet into reruns, the 15-year-old Funicello was the only Mouseketeer to remain under exclusive contract to the Disney studio. She made her feature-film debut in “The Shaggy Dog,” a 1959 comedy starring Fred MacMurray. It was the first of four Disney feature films she appeared in over the next six years, including “Babes in Toyland,” “The Misadventures of Merlin Jones” and “The Monkey's Uncle.”

Funicello received a big career boost when Disney agreed to loan her out to American International Pictures to make “Beach Party,” the song-filled, low-budget 1963 comedy in which she was first teamed on the big screen with Avalon. In the wake of the success of “Beach Party,” Funicello and Avalon co-starred in “Muscle Beach Party,” “Bikini Beach,” and “Beach Blanket Bingo.”

After this unusual acquaintance, Chaplin and Fairbanks became very good friends. During World War I, they teamed up with Mary Pickford and toured the country at rallies to help sell Liberty bonds to help finance the war effort. The two even decided to form their own motion picture studio together, along with Pickford and director D.W. Griffith. That studio, United Artists, in one form or another continued to exist to this very day (although the current United Artists is pretty much just connected by the name only)!

The duo remained friends, even when Fairbanks's movie career started to slide in the early 1930s. On December 12, 1939, at 56, Fairbanks had a heart attack in his sleep and died a day later at his home in Santa Monica. By some accounts he had been obsessively working out against medical advice, trying to regain his once-trim waistline. Fairbanks's famous last words were, "I've never felt better". His funeral service was held at the Wee Kirk o' the Heather Church in Glendale's Forest Lawn Memorial Park Cemetery where he was placed in a crypt in the Great Mausoleum. He was deeply mourned and honored by his colleagues and fans for his contributions to the film industry and Hollywood. A monument was erected at the cemetery, and Charlie Chaplin read a rememberance of his friend in October of 1941 at its dedication. It has often been said that Chaplin never recovered completely after the death of his friend, but what is truly known about these two friends is they liked to work hard and play ever harder...